


False King II

by bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dream Pack, Drugs, M/M, Other, Violence, joey K, k - Freeform, kavinsky - Freeform, oleksy prokopenko, proko, prokopenko - Freeform, substances, volvo golf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit/pseuds/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit
Summary: Joseph "Fuckboy" Kavinsky is the wicked devil king of Henrietta's darker parts and anyone who has heard the boy's name has an inkling of understanding of that fact. Unfortunately, something about him is charming enough to keep the company of one Oleksy Prokopenko.Maybe it's the drugs.Maybe it's just the company itself.Will the world ever actually know?





	False King II

 

“Hold still.”

 

The words cut through the ashen gray-lighted interior of Prokopenko's Golf, followed by a faint boyish giggle and the obvious twist of skin against aforementioned leather interior. “It tickles.” Oleksy huffed out in protest, his hands folding over Kavinsky's black and blue and purple smattered knuckles as those vicious fingers curled around trim hips and dug into the small of Prokopenko's back. Another soft bit of laughter cut the smoky interior, more shifting, but eventually he stilled as one hand drew away from his hips and pressed down in a fist at the center of his chest. It wasn't a warning, although Kavinsky had hit him once or twice or... Well he'd lost count. But that was just how things were with them. Joseph was a god of drugs, sex, violence—all things starkly related to sin. He was an _anti-Christ_. A _devil_. If Prokopenko believed in those things. He did not—not really anyway. He'd stopped believing in God when the reports of his father and younger sister's fatalities were delivered to he and his mother. Died on the scene. Crushed up like a soda can. Oddly enough, he never thought of them when he was driving recklessly with Kavinsky less than a car length ahead of him, or when Kavinsky was driving and he was engulfed in the passenger seat. In fact, Oleksy very rarely thought of them at all.

 

But if there were such things as devils and angels, Joseph Kavinsky was most certainly the king of devils.

 

Powdered, white substance trickled along the inner space between Prokopenko's hip and pelvis. The first time Kavinsky had ever placed the powder there, he'd nearly displaced all of it in a spasm of surprise—he hadn't been aware of just _how_ ticklish his hips were until feeling the placement of the powder there. The movement had earned Prokopenko an open palmed slap across the face and a menacing growl of _“If you move again, I'm gonna cut your balls off and feed 'em to you.”_ He believed that threat, and so he had stayed incredibly still, despite the nerves firing off in desperate, tortured elation at the attention of first smoothed powder and then humid breath. Just as then, Prokopenko tightened all of the muscles within his languid, barely controlled body now. And he hummed a quiet sound somewhere between a moan of delight and a groan of uncertainty. Apparently _those_ were the sort of sounds Kavinsky enjoyed hearing from _him_ personally.

 

Kavinsky's nose hovered over the line, inhaling deeply as he did, and a course bit of laughter followed the initial movement. His tongue followed in a large, flat line across the other boy's pale skin. Lapping up the last of whatever remained upon Prokopenko's skin. And, for good measure and to _test_ his dog's resolve, Kavinsky leaned just slightly enough to plant his teeth on the curve of the other boy's protruding hip bone, and he bit down. Prokopenko, in response to this sudden roiling of sensations building heat and uncertainty within the pit of his stomach, arched into Kavinsky's mouth and squeal a startled sound.

 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , K.”

 

Apparently he hadn't done anything wrong though because Kavinsky leaned back onto his knees and dragged his tongue over the jagged gash of a smirk smeared across his visage. “Don't be so eager for me.” Kavinsky added, patting Oleksy's hip with one of those calloused hands before dipping it beneath his hips and shoving Prokopenko off of his lap entirely.

 

Prokopenko curled up his legs and shifted in a disjointed jumble of movements until his legs were planted on the floorboard behind the passenger seat, Kavinsky still had his knees under him. Glancing over toward the other gangly boy, Oleksy's right eyebrow arched high enough it disappeared beneath the frosty cascade of his heat and humidity fluffed fringe. Kavinsky's arms were both raised, his hands closed up into fists. This was a game, Proko came to realize as that grin crept wider and slowly wider still across Kavinksy's face.

 

“One or the other.” Kavinsky mused to Prokopenko, the harsher boy practically vibrated with delight. Because Prokopenko was the only person close to Kavinsky, he also was the only person Kavinsky seemed to _trust_ to experiment with his dream concoctions. It was a prospect that equally delighted and inspired Oleksy. Nobody had ever _needed_ him for anything before. And while he doubted that Kavinsky actually _needed_ him now anyway, it was still nice to be the first to experience his brand of substances. “One or the other.” Prokopenko responded and reached out to over a hand over Kavinsky's left, and more notably mangled hand. “That one.” Proko added, withdrawing his hand before touching Kavinsky. Some days it was all right, some days it wasn't okay to touch the King at all. Mostly he waited for indication because one too many times, he'd nearly lost consciousness to a violent outburst in response to being _touched_ without permission.

 

“Excellent choice.” Kavinsky rumbled, watching as Proko's hand retreated to his lap. Unfurling his left fist, he made a flashy show of twisting that hand before exposing his palm and within the center of that palm sat a pill nearly as bright and as radiant as the sun. Without the burning effects, apparently, because Kavinsky's hand was fine. Rolling the pill to sit pinched between his index finger and thumb, Kavinsky leaned in just enough to press the pill between Prokopenko's lips and then rocked back to lean against the closed car door. He looked, Prokopenko observed as he waited for the effects to hit him, like a king lackadaisically rolled back into his ashen gray throne. Prokopenko also noted the intense look of consideration and analysis upon Kavinsky's visage. Apparently he was _also_ waiting for the effects to take. That was all right by Prokopenko. Shifting and crossing his legs, Proko leaned back to almost mirror Kavinsky's position. Only he was significantly more rigid and folded up to permit the king his legroom.

 

A few minutes passed, the look upon Kavinsky's face remained, but Prokopenko wasn't certain the substance had actually _done_ anything beyond make his mouth taste like orange juice—which it hadn't to begin with, this seemed to be a slow developing side effect of the pill. “I don—whoa...” It _had_ worked, there just needed to be _sound._ “Trippy.” Proko started, his eyes growing wide as saucers. “Right man?” Kavinsky was laughing now—watching the way that Prokopenko's eyes danced and darted and followed along with whorls of color. Every sound seemed to garner more, adding to Prokopenko's eagerness for more. “Whoa, whoa.” He reached out, twisting fingers around and around in the invisible—but very real and present in his own vision—colors. “I don't think I've ever seen _that_ color before. Or that one.” He swiped again and as he did, Kavinsky shifted and shoved the car door open and climbed out. When he got back into the car, trailing a line of smoke from a cigarette, he slid into the driver's seat and turned the vehicle on. Even the whining whir of the engine starting up earned new pops of color. With a glance to the back seat, Kavinsky noted the slack jawed, child-like intrigue upon Prokopenko's face. So he added to it, slowly at first, because over-stimulation could immediately make a good trip, bad. Turning the radio up, he watched again as eyes darted back and forth, Proko's hands moving like a conductor's through the air.

 

“Shit, fuck, whoa. Wow.”' The profanities were broken up only by more of those explicative sounds.

 

Pinning an arm practically beneath him, and nearly sliding a thigh up onto the Volvo's center console, Kavinsky hummed and nodded. His fingers tapped out the bass rhythm of the music currently rattling the speakers. “You're a goddamned genius.” Proko rumbled out, sinking down further onto the backseat, uncertain of whether he should have his eyes on Kavinsky, or whether he should be watching those sound-produced colors. It did not seem even remotely realistic—drugs _couldn't_ do this. Drugs _shouldn't_ be able to _do this_. But then, there were people that had remarked to him in the last couple of years of his life, that there were glasses for color blind people... Prokopenko just couldn't see himself in glasses, partially because he wasn't certain he wanted to spend the money on frames and lenses that would wind up smashed under someone's foot at a substance party, or accidentally dropped when he was too high off his ass to remember anything at all. And there _were_ people that experienced crossed senses; people that associated letters with certain colors, or heard certain sounds with certain visual stimulus. Even if he wanted to remember what he thought it called, almost the entirety of his brain seemed far too dedicated to the sights in front of him presently. “I am, aren't I?” Kavinsky answered before he settled back into the driver seat. “Got another one for y' too.” That same hand he'd had fisted before, the one that Prokopenko had not chosen, rose up suddenly to produce a pill that looked more like a tiny oval slice of the Milkyway Galaxy than it did any substance he'd ever seen. The question of _where_ they came from no longer propagated within his brain space. They _came_ from Kavinsky. Oleksy just assumed that his king was a genius chemist of some sort. And maybe Joseph Kavinsky was. His secrets were still vast, and the rumors about him too naturally combined with truths to weed out the bits that were heinous.

 

“What's this one do?” Prokopenko mused, eventually drawing himself off of the leather back seat. With his movements came the peeling sound of sweat slicked skin coming off of the interior. A very _very_ common sound in and around Henrietta Virginia during the summertime months—and almost all year round considering how hot it always was. A smooth, small roll of Kavinksy's shoulders was the only answer offered, he was not certain _what_ the pill did, actually. He suspected something _out of this world_ , but he also was not about to crack that kind of a joke while Prokopenko was too high to remember it later. “Why don't you take it and find out.”

 

Maybe the reason Prokopenko had nearly overdosed twice were because Kavinsky had this fascinating habit of arousing his intrigue with new substances too soon after ingesting something. Maybe it was because Kavinsky tended to be just as high off of his ass as Oleksy when offering the substances—because warnings tended to come with them in the form of “ _Man, what have I told you about taking too many things at once? It'll kill you man, I don't want that on my conscience.”_ Proko was pretty certain Joseph Kavinsky was born without a conscience. Had become even more convinced when the rumor that he'd killed his father was greeted with one of those filthy grins. He had become even more convinced the day that he'd sat in the passenger seat of Kavinsky's white mitsubishi staring at the gangly boy and a random stranger dressed in black, all bleached from the Mitsubishi's headlights, working a deal of some sort. It had gone south so quickly, Prokopenko wasn't certain whether he was experiencing a side-effect of the apparent Absinthe-like drink Kavinsky had given him or real life as that strange was smashed across the Mitsubishi's hood with some sort of firearm tucked up beneath his chin. In the end, a body had been scraped into the Mitsubishi's trunk to be disposed of later, and Prokopenko had been instructed to follow behind K in the stranger's parked vehicle—for disposal purposes. They danced around the vehicle fire, half naked and panted in sweat and streaks of cocaine plastered to their concave bodies, whooping and chanting over a job well done. Apparently jobs where you still got paid (even though Oleksy _knew_ that Kavinsky did not need the money) by a man you had just killed, were considered remarkably well done because you got to keep the product _and_ the money. Prokopenko had thrown up shortly after the drink and drug's effects had worn off, and Kavinsky rolled on the ground in a fit of drink-induced laughter at the trembling discomfort of one vomiting Oleksy Prokopenko.

 

Kavinsky's hand remained splayed open, the pill planted perfectly in the center of that scarred and calloused palm. As he swiped it up, he noted briefly that there was a small freckle beneath where it had settled. Strange. But completely unnecessary information. “What's it do?” Prokopenko popped the pill, swallowing it down dry before he groped around in the back seat for a can of beer because it had stuck in his throat and he did not want to start coughing. He did _not_ want Kavinsky to make fun of him for it. “You already asked that.” Kavinsky answered in a langourous hum. Prokopenko watched him blink slowly in the rear view mirror as he sucked down half of the can of beer. It dawned on him in that moment, as the beer and that pill hit his belly, that Kavinsky looked... Tired. “Yeah.” Proko slumped back and kicked his heels up high, bracketing the passenger seat headrest between his sky-blue hightops. “Yeah, I did, didn't I...” Without answering him, without even looking in the direction of those shoes, K plucked at the mess of laces until both of Prokopenko's shoes were an untied mess. “Mmhm, you did, didn't you.” He hummed again and Prokopenko's eyes grew heavy. Tilting his chin up some, Kavinsky only turned around in his chair again to rest his chin on the driver seat and to watch Prokopenko nod off. Apparently they made people sleep. How boring. Unless they were like the red and green pills Kavinsky had dredged out of his dreams. Then maybe not as boring, except for the fact that he was the _only_ one who seemed to be able to actually do anything with them. Which snapped the thought right back to _how boring_.

 

Kavinsky rode that mental tanget, tapping his toe to the beat rattling the Golf until Prokopenko's left foot slid into the space between the front seats with a heavy thud. It did not startled Kavinsky, mostly because he'd seen the movement out of his peripheral vision, but that did not mean his heart hadn't felt like it'd dropped just as heavily in that moment too. He flicked at the foot once, less to get a slumbering Prokopenko's attention, and more to give his hands something to do. _Something_ about Kavinsky always tended to be in motion, even when he was sitting mostly still.

 


End file.
